I N January, 1934, an International Exhibition of Theatrical Art was opened at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. There in a dozen rooms one might view the assembled work of outstanding designers for the stage from the seventeenth century to the present day. An exhibition from the Soviet Union was—not very surprisingly—late in arriving, so that for visitors at its opening, Russian stage decoration was not represented. Those who returned later saw a modest collection of stage models or maquettes downstairs and a few sketches in an upper room. But one wished to see more.
In January, 1935, an exhibition entitled "Seventeen Years of Stage Design in U.S.S.R.” was opened at the Historical Museum facing the Red Square in Moscow. There one might view assembled in two dozen rooms the work of outstanding designers of that one country during the last two decades. If those whose appetites had been whetted by the New York exhibition had journeyed to Moscow they might have seen enough glory to last them a lifetime. I was one of the few privileged to see both exhibitions. I listened at the opening ceremonies of the Moscow exhibition to People’s Commissar of Education Bubnov repeat the government’s pride in the Soviet theatre, to Artists Fedorovski and Akimov and Director Tairov reaffirm the theatre’s pride in its own accomplishment. Now one regularly hears in Russia expressions of pride in
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accomplishment; they are repeated so often as to weary some foreign visitors whose broader bases for comparison make it difficult for them to share the Bolsheviks’ satisfaction in all their handiwork. However, none of the dozen or so foreigners who were present in this large assembly of Moscow’s intelligentsia would have denied the justification for the Russians’ pride in this exhibition. They could defy any country to present such a quantity and variety of conceptions for decor in the theatre as Soviet artists had here presented.
What conclusions about Russian design could one draw after seeing the exhibition? First, that the excellence of the theatre in the Soviet Union is not entirely dependent upon its acting, as most of the world has been led to believe, but in some measure also upon its decor . Second, that there is as much variety of expression in design as we have seen that there is in styles of producing and acting. Third, that the Russian designer is primarily a painter and afterwards a man of the theatre. Fourth, that the designer’s work is almost entirely done to fill a need, by which I mean that artists have either not the time or not the inclination to design "projects for the theatre”—there are no Gordon Craigs among them, nothing like Geddes’ famous "Divine Comedy” project is represented in the exhibition—only settings for plays actually produced. Fifth, that the Russian designers show sometimes more courage than skill in seeking novelty of expression, but that that courage always reveals a fertile imagination at work to find some resource for the theatre which it has not possessed before. Good taste and a knowledge of interior decoration can equip a New York designer for setting the average show quite adequately there. Moscow requires more, for its designers do not follow patterns. If we study the history of the designer in the Russian and Soviet the-
160 MOSCOW REHEARSALS
atre, we can see that some of these conclusions may be explained in the light of that history.
Sergei Diaghilev, whose name one associates primarily with the ballet, was probably as great an influence in the development of the arts of the theatre in Russia in the early twentieth century as was Stanislavski. Particularly in the field of stage design was he influential. It was in 1898 when he founded the magazine Mir Iskusstva ("World of Art”) that the Russian painters of the time first came into active collaboration with Diaghilev. He invited such painters as Roerich, Benois and Bakst to do the illustrations for it, and the "magazine became the semiofficial organ which particularly defended and furthered the work of those artists who expressed fantasy or archaism.”
Diaghilev had even earlier arranged the first exhibition in Russia of contemporary French impressionist and symbolist painters, and these Russian artists all came more or less under the influence of the French. They and also Golovin, Korovin, Anisfeld, Vrubel and Serov, with whom Diaghilev was from time to time associated, were one in their opposition to naturalism in painting. They were, however, less symbolists than they were colorists and anti-naturalists.
Diaghilev it was who also led them to the stage, for he brought them into collaboration with himself in the production of his ballets. In their work with him and in the work which some of them did for the private opera theatre of the Moscow millionaire, Mamontov, they avoided the current naturalistic trend and turned stage sets into great canvases on which they painted their broad, bold pictures with an unparalleled flow of color. In order that it might be a complete picture they all designed the costumes which were to fit into their scenes. They were all influenced by the exotic: Bakst by orientalism, Roerich by
eugene onegin. Duel scene designed by Rabinovich for the Bolshoi Opera
prince igor designed by Fedorovski for the Bolshoi Opera
the storm as produced at the Moscow Art Theatre by Rabinovich in 1934 and at the Kamerny Theatre by Stenberg in 1924
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DESIGNERS AT WORK 161
recent Scythian research, Benois by eighteenth century baroque.
The "legitimate” dramatic theatre of the early twentieth century was, as we have seen, absorbed in naturalism. Therefore, these great painter-artists had little to do with it and their work was mostly seen on the stages of ballet and opera. In the Moscow Art Theatre the chief painter was Simov and it was he who was the leader of the naturalist designers in the theatre. The two schools grew up side by side. It was not until Meierhold went to St. Petersburg that the colorist-impressionists began to work in drama to any extent, and at first it was chiefly in the music-drama productions of Meierhold that they collaborated. Then Meierhold formed a sort of artistic collaboration with Alexander Golovin, and with him produced "Don Juan,” "Masquerade” and several other plays. After that the colorists were commissioned regularly to do sets for the Imperial theatres, though their work was seldom seen in Moscow.
The Revolution brought an end to the painter-artist influence in the theatre, at least for the time being. Meierhold, as we have seen, was practically the only man who created new productions in the early years of the Revolution and he turned abruptly from his collaborator, Golovin, and plunged into constructivism. Both the naturalists and the impressionist-colorists had kept in their settings a geographical actuality; this they had in common. Meierhold now wanted to abolish all suggestions of place and substitute scenery which would provide no representational connotations whatever but which would be as abstract as the theory of movement which he was creating. I have tried to show earlier how constructivism suited his purpose.
"The constructivists were concerned least of all with the stage picture and most of all with the dynamics of action,”
writes Margolin, the Soviet critic. 1 They did, however, have concern for the content of the play, for, as Margolin points out, "The constructivist artist being little concerned about the decoration of the stage or about the spots of color in the performance, endeavors to put the whole of his energy into disclosing the social aspects of the play.”
Although constructivism was the chosen scenic art of the Revolutionary theatre in Russia during its early period, other styles continued simultaneously. The academic theatres—the Moscow Art and the Maly—never abolished representationalism, and the few new plays which they produced during these early years were as nat- uralistically set as ever. As the 1920’s progressed and these theatres started to swing into the prescribed leftward line, they began to partake somewhat of the outward form of the more leftward theatre, and their scenic effects began to reflect the influence of greater stylization. Productions like "The Fruits of Enlightenment” and "Don Carlos” at the Maly showed a departure from naturalism as did Golovin’s charming settings for "The Marriage of Figaro” at the MX AT, done in his best colorist style, and the production there of "Three Fat Men.”
Beside constructivism and naturalism, a third school of design carried from the Russian into the Soviet theatre was the formalism of Tairov’s decorations at the Kamerny Theatre. This was in the main derived from the futurist and cubist painters, and although certain developments of it resemble constructivism, there is this fundamental difference which is the characteristic of the futurists and the cubists: this formalism had no function "either representational, social, ethical, didactic, religious, sentimental, or even rationally logical.” It was designed to evoke purely aesthetic reactions. It was the last stand of the preachers of "L’Art pour Part” in Russia. Hence it was as welcome
1 The Theatre in the U . S . S . R ., p. 44.
in the theatre which Tairov was creating as functional constructivism was to Meierhold. When constructivist elements were used at the Kamerny, as in the production of Ostrovski’s "The Storm” or in parts of "Girofle-Girofla,” we must remember that they were not used functionally, but as pure form—they were static and not dynamic; so they differed from Meierhold’s use.
Exter and Vesnin were the artists who gave the Kamerny its scenic stamp, and in the productions of "Phedre,” "Salome,” "Romeo and Juliet,” and "The Man Who Was Thursday,” the influence of futurism and of cubism in costume and scenery is at its height. As the Kamerny has moved away from its aestheticism into a more leftward position, so its scenery has lost the forms of its past and now, in the hands of Exter’s successors, the Stenberg brothers and Ryndin, it becomes more symbolic and allegorical with at the same time many more realistic details. Ryndin’s settings for "Machinal” are typical of this unexpected juxtaposition. Against a background of projected skyscrapers which mount in rigid corrugations of light into the sky, are set small scenes without ceilings or side maskings, realistic rooms with beds and lamps, desks and typewriters, sinks and dirty dishes, rooms which huddle symbolically beneath the towering monuments of capitalistic construction.
The latest reconstruction phase of the Revolution has called forth that new style of art given the name of "socialistic realism” which is talked of and is being created in all branches of the theatre: in staging plays, in writing them, in devising backgrounds for them. It is the artistic slogan of the hour, but it is hard to find a definition of it. Soviet artists seem only able to say that it is "the artistic expression of the new life and the building of the socialist state.” Accept such a loose definition, and it seems easier to tell you what it is not than what it is. Meierhold’s satire
MOSCOW REHEARSALS
164
was not socialistic realism, for it was backward-looking and hence negatively rather than positively Revolutionary; likewise his style was not, for it was abstract. The new life and the building of socialism are concrete and call for concrete representations. The formalism of Tairov was therefore equally not it, for all theories of pure aesthetics were out of touch with the new or any other life. The naturalism of the Art Theatre, on the other hand, was just as far from being the expression of the new life and the building of socialism as abstractions, for it was essentially passive and non-committal. An active art form is required to express such an active idea as building, and photographic literalness is static. The new style therefore seems to require active, real representations of ideas that have bearing on the new life.
Socialistic realism which began as an attitude toward art thus ends up as a style of art. In the field of design its practice, as I have suggested, requires the abolition of all entirely non-representational art, including constructivism and cubism, the latter long condemned by the Marxian theatre as an essentially negative art. It means the abolition also of pure naturalism. The socialistic realism of the stage designer therefore seems to be a style which has elements borrowed from many sources. There will be some forms of a filled-out constructivism; there will be simplified naturalism; there will be occasional use of non-realistic color brought down from the Mir Iskusstva; there will be some of the formal arrangements borrowed from the space stage and from expressionism. It seems to be a highly eclectic style—anything may become socialistic realism so long as it is not too definitely and completely something else, and so long as it is used actively by the designer to express in some way "the new life and the building of the socialist state.” On the whole it seems to an outsider to be
merely leading to a simplified representationalism such as the best imaginative Western theatre has been creating for the last ten years or so.
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The study of acting and regie in Moscow led us to particular theatres where actors and regisseurs are permanently associated in creation. The study of stage design leads us to individual artists who have no permanent tie with any specific theatre and each of whom is working out his own private salvation. Collective creation in the theatre which is so uniquely an achievement of the Russian stage breaks down when we come to the designer’s place in it.
Several times I have asked Moscow authorities why theatres do not have designers regularly and permanently associated with their organizations, why the Central Theatre Technicum, when it trains a complete collective theatre of actors, regisseurs, managers, literary advisers, to send out to provincial centers, trains no designers to go with it. No one knew a satisfactory reason. There were in 1934 no schools of stage design in Russia and no art courses in which one could major in designing for the theatre. This would not seem so surprising were it not for the many courses, schools, institutes and technicums which exist in the U.S.S.R. for the preparation of actors and regisseurs.
The answer seems to be that the Soviet Union does not yet look upon stage designing as a profession in itself. The designer for the Soviet theatre is a painter. His training in art school is for painting and the stage becomes for most of them simply an enlarged atelier . I appreciated this when I visited that Exhibition of Theatre Art in January, 1935. One-third of the rooms were filled with what seemed to be illustrations of engineering projects set behind proscenia. The other two-thirds were hung with exquisite paintings which gave no suggestion that they were done
for execution in the theatre. The painter had been interested in making a good easel picture; afterwards he thought of transposing it to the stage. He is first an illustrator. That is why so many of his maquettes and later his finished settings seem clumsy and awkward when they are realized. That is why many admirers of the decorations of Russian artists which they have known only from reproductions of the original sketches, are disappointed when they see the finished products on the Moscow stages.
I have said that we must go to individual artists and not to theatres if we are to study design, and that is what I propose to do now. There are no more than eight or ten outstandingly fine stage decorators in Moscow this year, if one excludes painters like Favorski who have done one or two isolated plays, beautifully mounted, as a sort of recreational sideline. It is possible to say of these eight or ten that they know the requirements of the theatre, and remember that they are creating for it when they make their sketches, so they should be excepted from the general criticism which I have just made of the Soviet stage picture-painters.
The "dean” of scene designers in Moscow is Fedorovski who is the chief colorist of them all. He learned many lessons from the lush Byzantinism of Bakst and the primitivism of Roerich. His brush is broad and his palette vivid. His style is heavy and monumental, what we should call operatic, and it is no wonder that his work is rarely seen except at the Bolshoi Theatre for which he has designed the gorgeous trappings of "Boris Godunov,” "Prince Igor,” "Carmen,” "Lohengrin.” He is the perpetuator of the tradition of the Mir Iskusstva.
Among the leaders of the constructivist movement in the Soviet theatre, Dmitriev, who designed Meierhold’s first Revolutionary production, "Dawn,” and Shestakov, who designed Meierhold’s "Woe from Wisdom,” are in-
telligent artists who comprehend the effect which the changing age has upon their art. They appreciate that constructivism is dead and that they must create a new and living style upon its structure. In his swing back, Dmitriev has gone to an extreme of naturalism, as one can see from his production of "Egor Bulichev” for the Vakhtangov Theatre, and in his maquettes for "Enemies” for the Art Theatre. Even so he is closer to the new approved socialistic realism than before. Shestakov in his 1934 production of "The Good Life” for the Second Art Theatre shows that he knows what is meant by the new style and gives a very satisfactory illustration of it. He uses modern furniture, flat bright color for interior walls, modern lamps and fixtures. He is attempting to show the kind of environment which the new Russian intelligentsia is on the point of creating for itself and for others.
Simov, the same Simov who designed the first productions of the Moscow Art Theatre almost forty years ago, continues to work and might, in fact, challenge Fedorov- sld for the title of "dean” of scenic artists. Simov’s style has changed little in all these years and his new productions are chiefly those of the First Art Theatre.
Isaac Rabinovich is one of the finest designers modern Russia has produced. I spent an exciting two hours one afternoon over coffee in the attractive new and very bourgeois-looking cafe opposite the Art Theatre listening to him talk about his work and about some of the things that good Soviet design is attempting. Rabinovich considers himself a theatrical-architectural designer and so opposes the painter-artists to begin with. He has studied constructivism in the past and his settings for the Nemirovich- Danchenko "Lysistrata” were based on the principles of constructivism given architectural body. It was his arrangement of white, slender, Greek columns with only their entablature set in swaying curves against bright blue
space that New Yorkers who saw this production there remember. He has continued to work three-dimensionally and architectonically, and his aim is to create "form in its expression of the meaning of the play,” a doctrine close to that of the constructivists’. The difference lies in the kind of form he will use.
Rabinovich calls himself a regisseur-designer, for his sets are so created that to be complete, the actor must take his place in them in such positions as he, the designer, indicates. He sees the actors as sculpture set in his scene. The duel scene from "Eugene Onegin” illustrates how he designs for and with people. The curtain rises upon empty space, but an emptiness that is white, not black. On one side of the stage is gradually revealed through increasing light the dark outline of a deserted mill and a leafless tree. The rest is show, snow that stretches out to the horizon, that blends itself with a white sky—all this visible as through the haze that precedes dawn. But this illimitable whiteness has no meaning and no depth until the black figures of the duelists and their seconds appear. Then his picture is complete only when they assume positions in the frame which fulfill his composition.
Rabinovich believes that a regisseur-designer may have other contributions to make to a play. He illustrates this by his work on the Vakhtangov Theatre’s "Intervention.” He had gone off to the country in the summer to prepare his maquettes , and there he read the play for the first time. When he laid down the script at the end, he felt that something more was needed. So when he returned to Moscow in the fall and exhibited his sets to the theatre, they found that he had created a set for a final scene which did not exist in the play.
They said, "What is this?”
"A representation of the great steps of Odessa,” he answered.
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